


Iron Curtain

by puny



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, M/M, apologies to aristophanes, extreme sexual frustration, roommate hijinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:22:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5413241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puny/pseuds/puny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desperate times, Tsukishima thinks, call for <i>vicious</i> measures.  </p><p>(Kuroo and Bokuto are, predictably, impossible to live with; Akaashi and Tsukishima hatch a plot. Nothing goes as planned.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iron Curtain

**STAGE ONE: STRATEGY DEVELOPMENT**

It's eight in the morning when Tsukishima calls the emergency meeting. He'd asked Akaashi to meet him at his favorite coffeeshop, which is not coincidentally the only place to get a decent cappuccino within ten miles. Leaves spiral slowly to the ground outside as he nurses his caffeine and plots coldblooded murder.

"Hi," Akaashi says, sliding into the seat across from him. He looks at Tsukishima, who's sporting heavy bags under his eyes, and down at the steaming coffee that Tsukishima has already ordered for him (cream, no sugar). "What's this about?" 

"I," Tsukishima says, steepling his fingers, "cannot live with them anymore." 

Instant understanding spreads across Akaashi's pale face. "Yes," he agrees, "it's about time we did something." 

They each take a sip of their drink. Tsukishima thinks briefly of where Kuroo probably is at the moment, sprawled on the bed and drooling freely, and can tell by the look on Akaashi's face that he's thinking of his own live-in nuisance too. There's a reason he wanted to meet this early; neither of their boyfriends would be conscious enough to stumble in for another two and a half hours, giving them ample time to plot a slow, painful demise. Or maybe just pain. Unending pain. Tsukishima isn't feeling very merciful at the moment. 

"If I have to deal with another spontaneous karaoke night, I will strangle both of them with the mic cords." 

"No more microwave experiments, either," Akaashi adds. They've just replaced their third. 

"No more _jello shots,_ " Tsukishima grits out. 

"No more cardboard cutouts," Akaahi counters, lip curling. Kei thinks of the life-size Pierce Brosnan in his and Kuroo's shared closet and shudders. 

"But priority one," he says, _"no more pranks."_

Akaashi nods. He's probably as beyond fed up with them as Tsukishima. Neither of them know how it started, and Bokuto and Kuroo's weak primate brains definitely don't remember, but for what feels like forever they've been swapping stupid fucking pranks that more often than not end up ruining his or Akaashi's day. Tsukishima's mental tally of the past few months goes like this: Bokuto emptying all the cereal boxes and refilling them with cat litter. Kuroo stealing all of the condoms from Bokuto and Akaashi's room and replacing them with complimentary mini bibles. Bokuto filling Kuroo and Tsukishima's room a foot and a half deep with water balloons. Kuroo wrapping every single object and piece of furniture in Bokuto and Akaashi's room with glittery Christmas wrapping paper. Bokuto replacing Kuroo's stick of deodorant, toothpaste, and shampoo with cream cheese. Kuroo mixing electric blue dye into Bokuto's toxic-looking hair gel. Every single time they swear it's the last, that's it, the war over for good this time, but then a couple weeks pass and one of them finds some new way to make Tsukishima's living arrangements feel like frathouse hell. He's literally just spent all of last night tossing and turning, since his own goddamn apartment reeked of industrial-strength epoxy from Kuroo's brilliant plan to glue all of Bokuto's weights to the weight rack. "Can't we just kick them out." 

"Too loud," said Akaashi. "Also, they would just go hassle Sawamura." 

Tsukishima drains his cappuchino. "Well, I don't know. We could threaten to move out." 

"Wouldn't believe us." 

"The silent treatment?" 

"Never been successful." 

He scowls. Akaashi's right. They have no cards to play. Yelling hasn't worked. Nothing has. They're literally incorrigible. 

"Although," Akaashi says, gazing at his cup but clearly seeing something else. He stops a second, hums in contemplation. Tsukishima waits as he gathers his thoughts. 

"Do you remember," he starts again, slowly. "That one classic lit course we both had to take as a prereq?" 

Kei's eyebrows knit together. "With that professor always seemed drunk?" 

"Yes. But," Akaashi continues, "do you remember _Lysistrata?"_

He does, barely. "The weird play about Greek women?" 

Akaashi finishes his coffee, getting up. "I have to get to comms. Look it up." 

And he's gone, just like that. Tsukishima likes Akaashi but the guy's so obnoxiously enigmatic sometimes. He pulls out his phone and googles Lysistrata. 

A play about Greek women. 

A play about Greek women _withholding sex to keep their husbands from waging war._ Tempting and distracting them. Tormenting them. 

It takes a couple seconds for the circuits in his brain to spark, clogged as they are with sleep and homicidal intent. 

He texts Akaashi: _we start tonight._

The reply pings only a second later. _they will suffer._

Tsukishima pulls his scarf up on the way out of the coffeeshop to hide his smile.

**STAGE TWO: TACTICAL DEPLOYMENT**

They are not subtle.

They don't need to be, though. Kuroo and Bokuto are not exactly nuanced individuals. Tsukishima is careful, though; he brings it up while Kuroo's doing some reading, casually mentioning that he'd like to lay off having sex for a while. That gets his boyfriend's attention immediately, his brows creasing, but Tsukishima shrugs, says he read about the benefits of taking breaks, assures him that it's only for a little while. 

Kuroo's clearly confused, but he acquiesces and goes back to his reading. Tsukishima almost feels a pang of guilt, watching him pore over a precedent textbook, reading glasses slipping low on his nose; by and large, he's sweet and caring. 

Tsukishima takes a deep breath. He catches a definite whiff of industrial glue from the last prank and decides that actually, no, he doesn't feel all that bad. 

-

He goes to the trouble of making pancakes the next morning, timing it so that he and Akaashi are polishing off two stacks just as Bokuto and Kuroo's ten 'o-clock alarms go off and they wander out, shirtless and yawning. 

"Oh hells of yes, _pancakes,_ " Kuroo says, pulling OJ out of the fridge and drinking it straight from the carton. 

Bokuto's groggy but already perking up. "Anyone say pancakes?" 

"Too late." Tsukishima swallows his last bite. "We thought you were sleeping in." 

"You've got whipped cream on your face," Akaashi cuts in, leaning across the table to wipe it off Tsukishima's chin. He brings his hand back to his lips and licks the cream off with slow, careful strokes of his tongue. 

"You too," Tsukishima says, perfectly casual, and reaches over to do the same. He sucks the sweetness off two of his fingers, taking his time. When he pulls them out of his mouth slow and wet he meets Kuroo's eyes, which are glazed over. 

"So... no pancakes?" says Bokuto in a very, very small voice.

"Sorry," Tsukishima smiles brightly. "Next time." 

-

"Ruthless," Tsukishima says later that day, when he goes to get a glass of milk and sees Akaashi typing a paper on the couch. He's wearing a soft, stretched-out sweater that drapes low over his throat and collarbones, a pair of Bokuto's thigh-length volleyball kneepads, and little else. 

Akaashi smiles mirthlessly. "Thank you. The whipped cream was a nice touch." 

Bokuto walks out of the bathroom yelling about something. Tsukishima watches clinically as he slows to a stop, his pupils dilating and mouth opening and closing soundlessly as his train of thought derails.

"Good luck," Tsukishima says nonchalantly. "On that paper." 

"Yeah," Akaashi says, his sweater slipping off one pale shoulder. "You too."

Bokuto looks crushed. Tsukishima pats the poor bastard on the shoulder as he goes past. 

-

Tsukishima's only two minutes into his shower when the knock at the bathroom door comes, right on time. 

"What is it," he calls, shutting the water off. 

"Are you going to take long? I have class in twenty-five minutes and I really need to use the shower." 

Tsukishima wraps a towel around his waist and opens the door. Akaashi stands there, looking perfectly composed. Over his shoulder Tsukishima can see their other two roommates on the couch, engaged in a vicious Mario Kart battle. 

"I just got in." Clumps of suds slide down his chest, emphasizing his point. 

"It's no big deal," shrugs Akaashi. "We can just shower together." 

"Sure," Tsukishima says, and closes the door just as Kuroo and Bokuto turn around. 

They don't actually shower together, of course. He washes the soap out of his hair and Akaashi gets in long enough to get soaked, but for the most part he washes his face, flosses, brushes, and kills time while Akaashi sits on the toilet seat and edits Wikipedia articles on his phone. 

They get out after twelve full minutes of leaving the shower running, wearing only damp towels. 

"Is there a problem?" Tsukishima pours himself a glass of water as Akaashi retreats to his room, humming slightly. 

"You just showered together," Kuroo says hollowly. "You just– just. Showered. With each other." 

_"When does the madness end," _moans Bokuto, muffled by the way he's pressed facefirst into the couch, their video game forgotten.__

__"Water conservation is important," Tsukishima says._ _

__Kuroo makes a sound of pure, distilled anguish. Satisfied, Tsukishima goes to cover himself up._ _

__-_ _

__"Wake up."_ _

__"Mmeplh?" Kuroo's muffled under the pillows he presses against his head._ _

__"I said wake up. We're going jogging." Tsukishima stands up, pulling on his shirt. The red LED display of his bedside clock reads 5:55._ _

__Kuroo makes no move to get out of bed, so he yanks the comforter off, ignoring the squawks of protest. "You're the one always on my ass about improving stamina. Up."_ _

__"Those are new," Kuroo says on their way out the door, squinting groggily._ _

__"My old shorts shrunk in the wash," Tsukishima says, counting on Kuroo's total ignorance of how laundry works. "These were on sale."_ _

__They were, too, but that wasn't why he'd bought them. The black and white athletic shorts are three sizes too small and about as short as they can possibly be without becoming publicly indecent, riding up his pale hips._ _

__"I like them," Kuroo yawns._ _

__Tsukishima smiles to himself._ _

__"I," Kuroo pants, twenty minutes later when they stop to rest, "hate. Those shorts."_ _

__"Yeah, I'm not sure I like them either," he agrees and takes a drink of water. "Too drafty. I might get rid of them."_ _

__"Don't you _dare,_ " Kuroo gasps, with feeling. "I hate you." _ _

__"Why? Have I been going too fast?" Tsukishima feels kind of bad for the guy. He'd made sure to jog slightly in front of Kuroo the whole way, affording him the best possible view. It'd not like Tsukishima even has much of an ass to speak of, but A) he knows Kuroo's tastes and B) the shorts pretty much could not be skimpier without basically being a thong._ _

__Kuroo glares up through his bangs, hands on his knees as he tries to get his breath back. "This is all part of your.... of your thing. Torture campaign. Making me suffer."_ _

__Tsukishima raises an eyebrow. "What, waking up early to run? It's really not that bad, you're just lazy."_ _

__"Just tell me what you _want,"_ he moans. _ _

__Tsukishima stretches his shoulders above his head. Completely coincidentally, this makes his shirt ride up and expose the flat planes of his stomach and the taut ridges of his hipbones. The shorts don't cover much. "I'm just trying to keep us both in shape."_ _

__"You're such a dick."_ _

__"Keep up, _darling,"_ Tsukishima says, hiking up the shorts even farther, and shifts back into a jog. _ _

__-_ _

__The front door unlocks. Kuroo's chortling at some dumb joke Bokuto's made as they close it, but as soon as they enter the room their conversation trails off._ _

__Good, Tsukishima thinks, pretending to be absorbed by the shitty _Chopped_ rerun they're watching. _ _

__There's a long moment where the only sounds are the fan and the TV. He and Akaashi continue to lick their popsicles, unperturbed._ _

___"There is only so much we can take,"_ Bokuto says, finally. On the screen, a chef breaks down in tears. _ _

__"It's hot out," Akaashi says flatly._ _

__He's not wrong. It is hot out, the apex of the heatwave that has been building for a week or so. Probably the last real scorcher of the year. Nearly hot enough to justify the way Akaashi and Tsukishima are sprawled all over each other on the couch, slurping at popsicles. They've donned battle armor: Tsukishima's in a thin, flimsy tank top and the new short shorts that Kuroo's so fond of, and Akaashi in an incredibly skimpy pair of cutoffs and a pale pink shirt that says SUMMER FUN! SUMMER FUN! SUMMER FUN! that's been butchered into a crop top. It's a good look on him._ _

__Bokuto seems to agree, based on the way he collapses to his knees with a thud. A chef gets chopped on the entreé round._ _

__"I didn't like her anyway," Tsukishima says, licking red dye no. 40 off his bottom lip._ _

__Akaashi hums in agreement. He probably can't talk due to the way his popsicle is inserted much farther in his mouth than is really necessary._ _

__Kuroo seems to be practicing deep breathing._ _

__"You okay, honey pumpkin?" Tsukishima deadpans._ _

__When he speaks, he sounds like a man with nothing left to live for. "Did you both shave your legs."_ _

__"Body hair keeps your internal temperature higher," says Akaashi calmly._ _

__"We shaved a lot of things," Tsukishima adds. "Heatstroke is no laughing matter."_ _

__Bokuto doubles over, clutching Kuroo's leg for strength. Kuroo just looks up, up and through the ceiling, a tormented man seeking grace._ _

__

____

**STAGE THREE: CONTENTION POINT**

"No," says Kuroo, "no, absolutely not, no way."

"It's our apartment too," Akaashi says, rolling out his yoga mat in front of the couch. 

"This is getting _really mean,_ you guys," Bokuto whines. 

"It doesn't have to be this way." Tsukishima rolls out his own, blocking Kuroo and Bokuto's view of the television. 

Akaashi cracks his shoulders. "We can come to an agreement anytime." 

"I'm not listening to you _terrorists,_ " Kuroo hisses. 

"I dunno, man," Bokuto says, eyes fixated on Akaashi's posterior as he touches his toes. "Maybe we should hear them out." 

"Never," Kuroo snarls, getting up. Tsukishima turns around and leans forward into downward dog. Between his legs he can see Kuroo stopping in his tracks. Victory. 

"All we ask," Akaashi starts, using his most neutral negotiation tone and assuming a flawless warrior pose. "is that both of you realize how completely unbearable you are to live with." 

"That's not true, man!" Bokuto cuts in immediately. 

"Really?" Tsukishima turns back towards them and balances on one leg. "You can't think of a single time either of you might have been an inconvenience?" 

Kuroo runs a hand through his hair. "Okay, fine, is this about us throwing out all the stuff in the fridge to make room for jello shots?" 

Bokuto tries. "Or when we were watching the Olympics and broke the TV trying to copy women's gymnastics?" 

"No? The time we covered ourselves in shaving cream and wrestled in the tub?" 

Tsukishima and Akaashi share the briefest of glances but say nothing, in accordance with their lifelong unspoken pact to never acknowledge that that incident was actually kind of hot. 

"The time we bought matching life-size cardboard cutouts of James Bond?" Kuroo ventures. 

"Or the time I left James Bond out to watch us, uh," Bokuto tips his head toward the bedroom door, waggling a suggestive eyebrow at Akaashi, "you know? Cause that was a complete accident, I swear." 

Akaashi's glare promises aeons of suffering. 

"Okay," Kuroo says, wiping tears from his eyes as his laughing fit subsides, "you guys have kind of a point. If we tone down the shenanigans – which make us wacky and lovable, by the way – will you call ceasefire?" 

"Sure." Tsukishima says, bringing his palms together in front of him. "As long as there's no more pranks." 

"BRO," Bokuto yells. 

"We have a _god given right_ to punk each other!" Kuroo splutters, literally putting his foot down. "The prank war is a historic tradition! It's years old! And you're– you are leveraging cruel and unusual punishment." 

"Wow, Tetsu, those law courses really paid off." Tsukishima says acidly. "Hey, tell me, what part of the Geneva Convention involves your dick?" 

He blows a fat raspberry back. Mature. "Bokuto, c'mon, we're leaving." 

"Are we?" Bokuto says, distractedly. "Uh, I mean, yes. We are." 

"See you later," Akaashi says softly, holding eye contact with Bokuto, and sinks all the way down into a perfect split. 

Bokuto makes a noise like a squeaky toy being stabbed, but Kuroo grabs him by the back of his jacket and he goes. 

"You wanna end the war?" Kuroo declares, jabbing a finger at them. _"You haven't seen anything yet."_

"What?" asks Akaashi, a couple seconds after the door slams. 

"I didn't know you were that flexible," Tsukishima responds, staring. 

"Well, now you do," he says irritably. "Help me up. We have a strategy to rethink."

**STAGE FOUR: ENEMY BACKLASH**

"This won't work," Akaashi says, blank-faced.

"What won't work?" Bokuto hefts the thick dumbbells in his hands. 

"And you're gonna break something," Akaashi adds. 

"Of course not," Kuroo says, sinking into a squat with the weight bar balanced on his shoulders. Sweat sticks his t-shirt to the front of his chest. "We do this allll the time." 

"Just two bros," Bokuto chimes in. "Workin' out in their living room." His biceps bunch up, grapefruit-sized, as he curls the weight. 

"No big deal," Kuroo says with a grin. Tsukishima can see his abs through the damp fabric. 

He rolls his eyes and leaves. 

-

It does, actually. Work, that is. The next day Tsukishima sees Akaashi getting a glass of water in the kitchen. He has what is unmistakably sex hair. 

He glares. 

"He agreed to the terms," Akaashi says calmly in response, "of no more pranks in or around our living quarters. I called a truce." Before he leaves, he fixes Tsukishima with a look. "The rest is up to you." 

Alone in the kitchen, Tsukishima grits his teeth. He's lost his ally, and he knows Kuroo isn't afraid to play dirty. 

-

Kei wakes up on the couch feeling drowsy and warm all over. He's pressed up to a solid, comfortable chest, familiar arms tight around him. 

"Hey, sleepyhead," someone rumbles right next to his ear. When he looks up, Kuroo's smiling, carding a hand through his hair. He must have fallen asleep during the movie. 

"What's so funny," he mumbles, and then immediately realizes he's got wood. Serious wood. Pressed right up against Tetsurou's thigh so that there's no doubt he can tell. 

"Betraying your own side," murmurs Kuroo, and he's so close, and so warm, and probably also hard. He's running fingers along the strip of lower back between Tsukishima's shirt and his boxers — god, Tsukishima loves those hands so much, it's their fault he's kissing Kuroo without even realizing it, thinking about those broad hot hands, the fingers playing slow along the rim of his shirt, when they could be on him, in him— 

Focus. It's the last thing in the universe he want to do, but he pulls away, climbing off Kuroo and the couch. 

"Hey, what gives?" 

"Still smells like industrial glue in here," says Tsukishima, gritting his teeth, and leaves. 

-

Tsukishima watches the rise and fall of Kuroo's sleeping torso the next morning and doesn't even bother ignoring the fondness that grips his own chest. 

He's obnoxious and kind of a huge dork and the grin that's always on his face is the definition of shit-eating, but that's not really– it's not all there is to him. Sure, he's dumb and loud for the hell of it, but not always. Tsukishima remembers the first couple times they'd locked eyes, Kuroo smirking and himself faking aloofness through the mesh of the volleyball net. He'd thought Kuroo was such an asshole before training camp happened. And he is, he really is an asshole, but he's also a good person so fundamentally that sometimes Kei thinks he doesn't deserve him at all.

Kei learned not to have idols a long time ago, but Kuroo Tetsurou, with the glint in his eyes after he blocked what was going to be a really good spike, or the way he'd wink and sleaze and needle the other team until they screwed up out of pure frustration, or even just the way he stood on the court like he belonged there, licking his lips at the promise of victory, was as close to one as Tsukishima was ever going to have. You weren't supposed to make out with your idol behind gym #3 after extra practice, though, clutching at his sweaty shirt in the pulsing summer heat, cursing him for leaving hickeys but never stopping him from doing it because at fifteen years old lips on Kei's neck were sweet and heady like beer, like the bass beat of a song, the slide of his back muscles even more satisfying against his fingertips than a good, solid block. 

And now here he is, wearing an old shirt that Kuroo fucked up and stained pink in the laundry, knowing that Tetsurou still clamps two pillows around his head to sleep because the train tracks outside his childhood house never gave him any quiet as a kid, pretty sure that the jar of loose change and bills on the bedside table is Kuroo's fund to send Kenma some new game for his birthday next month. He gets out of bed as quietly as possible. He's used to stealthy mornings, because Tetsurou studies better late at night and he's probably been up until one or so working towards his law degree. Kei had thought he was joking about it at first but it makes more and more sense by the day, imagining Kuroo standing in a courtroom instead of on a court, taunting and provoking and unnerving the opposition just like he's always done. 

So he dresses silently, leans over the bed to kiss Tetsu on the shoulderblade, and gets out of there as quickly as he can because if he has to spend another three minutes in perfectly chaste proximity to his (incredibly attractive) boyfriend he will have to be hospitalized for sexual frustration. 

-

The door clicks closed. 

"Surprise," Tetsurou says, and Tsukishima looks up from his book to see him hefting a bulging plastic bag in the air. 

"I've already eaten," he says. Kuroo just grins.

It turns out to be cake from the place across town Tsukishima really likes. Kuroo must have skipped part of his lecture and taken the train at rush hour to make it there and back. 

(If Tsukishima eats off of Kuroo's fork, it's because he's hungry. If he leans across the counter once they're finished and kisses him slow and sated, sweetness on his tongue, well, it's not just food he's hungry for.) 

He pulls away. Kuroo's eyes are soft and he's smiling – not the grin, but the warm faint one he never pulls on anyone else – and Kei just thinks _shit._

"I need to wash the dishes," he says to keep himself from doing anything stupid, and flees. 

It only buys him a little time. "You want help?" Kuroo murmurs in his ear, wrapping his arms around Tsukishima. 

He grits his teeth. "No." 

"With... anything?" One of his fingers slips under his sweats and traces the slope of his hipbone. 

"I'm good," he manages, feeling his dick twitch. "Thanks." 

"Okay," Tetsurou says. His lips are warm against Kei's neck, and it shouldn't be obscene but it is. He smells so fucking good. "If you say so." 

He backs off. The empty air is cold on Kei's spine. "I'm going to bed early," he says as he leaves, "but, you know, if you wanted to keep me up..." 

Tsukishima scrubs a fork so hard it bends.

**STAGE FIVE: ENTENTE CORDIALE**

The dishes get done in record time. When Tsukishima pushes the door to their room open, Kuroo is wearing reading glasses and underwear. One hand holds a book open on his knee. The other moves idly in his briefs.

"Are you jacking it to due process?" Tsukishima asks flatly. 

"Nah, just keeping myself busy," he smirks, "unless you'd like to help out." 

Kei has never been more tired of fucking around in his life. He yanks off his shirt, steps out of the sweats, pulls Kuroo's book out of his hands, and sits square on his lap. 

"Oooh," he begins, but Tsukishima cuts him off by slapping a hand on the headboard. 

"No pranks in the apartment," he hisses, so close their glasses click against each other. "That's it. That is the _only god damn stipulation._ Bokuto already agreed, there's no point to you holding out. Let's end this already." 

"But–" he begins, but Kei rolls his hips down and the rest is lost in his sharp inhale. 

_"Agreed?"_

"Yes," Kuroo says weakly, "yes, fuck, let's just fuck already–" 

It probably wasn't worth it, but Tsukishima savors the feeling of victory. He lifts himself off Kuroo and pulls something out of his bedside drawer. 

"That's not lube," his boyfriend says, crestfallen. 

"Even better," he smiles, and hands him the contract and a pen. 

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." It's printed. There are four signature lines at the bottom; three are taken. 

"You know I have to read this through first," he says, desperate. "I'm getting my fucking law degree." 

Tsukishima just looks him in the eye as he pushes his boxers down to his knees and starts stroking himself, slow but steady. 

"Fuck," Tetsu says, scrawling messily on the line. 

"Finally," Kei says, pulling it out of his hands, and leans forward to kiss him, deep and obscene with the weight of two and a half weeks at arms' length away. Neither of them say anything else coherent for a while. 

-

"Mmmmmm," Tetsurou groans, rolling over after round three. "God damn." 

Privately, Tsukishima agrees, but he's panting and can't find the words. He can't even feel his legs. He thinks he might be floating a little bit. 

"Just out of curiosity," says Tetsurou a minute later once they've caught their breath, "do you still have those shorts?" 

Kei uses the last remaining strength in his limbs to shove him off the bed. 

"Cause, y'know," Tetsu continues from the general vicinity of the floor, "if you do, we can probably put them to more creative use than jogging." 

(He does. They do.)

**Author's Note:**

> things i could be doing w my time: ∞ 
> 
> things i am doing with my time: butchering aristophanes into gay volleyball drivel
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
